Quest of the Nine Book 1
by Telcontar's girl
Summary: Aragorn's doings during the War of the Ring. Book 1 covers Bree to Rivendell. The work is complete but not all yet online.
1. Chapter 1

!-- page { margin: 2cm } { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif } { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif } { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --

Chapter 1

As his breath flowed over the glowing coals in the bowl of his chipped clay pipe, the flames surged to life before dying back down. Exhaling the smoke into the already pungent atmosphere, Strider turned his eyes once again in the direction of the door in the opposite corner of the inn's common room. He had heard the rumours, as had all in the Prancing Pony, of four hobbits from the Shire having arrived an hour before, and knew they were highly likely to be the four he was waiting for. Nobody near the door saw his glance in the firelight and wreaths of smoke, but this was also partly because, being a Man not prone to taking risks, he had also let the hood of his travelling cloak fall far enough forwards to cover most of his face before he had sat down hours ago. Tonight's work, he knew, was of the utmost importance.

For the next few minutes Strider contented himself with straining to overhear conversations between other guests at the inn. Travellers, even the Dwarves, he bothered little about; their news was old news to him, a Ranger who walked in the Wilds and influenced the events they only talked of. The locals, on the other hand, were the Men and hobbits he was attempting to listen to. They were the ones most likely to ask too many questions of the type he didn't want the hobbits to have to answer. The tall, weather worn Man removed the stem of his pipe from his rough lips to take a small sip from his tankard of ale; the golden liquid was high quality and always much looked forward to when he was journeying towards Bree and the Prancing Pony. Replacing the pipe he tried to focus on the words of a small group of Breelanders sitting a few tables away.  
In the confused noise and talkative babble it was difficult to discern what anybody, even somebody sitting at the same table as the listener, might be saying. Strider's keen hearing was shown to it's best advantage when trying to pick up a far-off dim sound in the distance against a background of silence or natural noise of wind, birds or rivers. It was beyond any mortal ability, however, to pick out one conversation in a room of many conversations, incessant laughter and much shouting, so Strider did not fare much better than a lesser Man not born of the blood of Westernesse could have done.

Barely had Strider made out the words 'Shire', 'hobbit' and 'Sauron' when his attention was caught by a different sound. The distinctive noise of the door creaking could barely be heard above the volume of the tavern's guests but because it was different and he'd been listening for it, Strider's acute hearing alerted him as three of the four he had been searching for walked tentatively into the common room. Obviously the round little innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur, hadn't suggested they would be safer in a private parlour or their bedchamber. His eyes narrowed as he thought of Barliman's refusal to let the Ranger visit the hobbits in a parlour as they supped. Did the portly Man not trust the Ranger, as so many did not, or was there a more sinister explanation? Strider wanted to think he could trust Butterbur but offending a friend would be by far the lesser of two evils; if he didn't let Butterbur know the secret of what was happening in his quiet town he couldn't pass the information on. If by foul chance the innkeeper was showing sympathy towards Mordor Strider couldn't afford to trust him with anything.  
Suddenly a hush fell over the whole room as the other members of the company slowly noticed the rotund but permanently harried Butterbur leading the three hobbits to a shorter height table close to one of the roaring fires. He clapped his hands, evidently about to introduce them to the crowd, and the few remaining talkers fell silent. A good many names were mentioned but Strider ignored them; he already knew or knew of everybody present. He again tried to catch any whispers but the only voices other than Barliman Butterbur's were voices shouting welcome, or correcting the innkeeper's pronunciation of their names.

After Butterbur ran off to see to some other of his numerous never ending duties, the three hobbits were subjected to questioning by the crowd. The sounds swelled and merged into an indistinguishable babble once more as people shouted out, wanting the three to repeat their names, give news from the Shire and give an explanation of what they were doing in Bree. The answers came back as soon as each individual question could be understood. Mr. Underhill, Mr. Took and Mr. Gamgee were, so Mr. Underhill told the crowded room, collecting information for a book he was writing about history and geography of the lands outside the Shire.  
At this the crowd stopped asking for news, of which the three hobbits had mentioned nothing yet, and started giving Mr. Underhill information about Bree, advice on how to write a book and suggestions for people he might like to talk to. The middle-aged hobbit pretended to look interested, but failed to write anything down. It was this, maybe, that caused the company to lose interest in the book and turn again to asking for news from outside Breeland.

Given that they had come downstairs into the crowd, things were going as well as could be expected, Strider thought as he remained seated in his corner slowly smoking and occasionally sipping his ale. At least the fool hobbits had not yet revealed Mr. Underhill's true name, Baggins, or their true purpose. He uncrossed his legs underneath his table and his travel worn but comfortable leather boots creaked slightly. It was the first move he had made, excepting the movements necessary to use pipe and tankard, since he had sat down at midday. His eyes never left the three, although they could not tell with any certainty that they were being watched because Strider had still not removed his hooded cloak or even pushed the hood backwards over his head to lie against his muscular shoulders.  
The crowd began now to turn to Pippin Took and Sam Gamgee, Mr. Underhill's companions, as Frodo himself failed to give them as much talk as they would like. Only a few minutes after they had walked in, Strider noted Mr. Underhill sit down quietly with his half pint whilst the two younger hobbits entertained the crowd by retelling tales of recent goings on in Hobbiton and other villages in the Shire. Staring intently at Mr. Underhill until the hobbit noticed, Strider caught the attention of the curly haired traveller, who immediately called Mr. Butterbur over. Strider had no way of overhearing their words over the applause Sam and Pippin were now receiving but could guess that the hobbit was asking about himself.

As soon as the innkeeper had left Frodo's side, Strider beckoned for the hobbit to come over and sit down. Frodo did so and Strider dropped his hood back. He was revealed to be a tall Man with dark hair, peppered slightly with grey. The face now showing was as weather worn as his boots but still ruggedly good to look upon. His eyes seemed to miss nothing and Frodo felt he was being scrutinised under Strider's gaze. There was something slightly proud about his bearing and the set of his shoulders but by no means could Strider be called arrogant. Belted under his cloak and hidden from the hobbit's view, the hilt of his sword barely made a dent through the think material. Despite the torn, dirt-stained clothing he seemed to be a Man with a knowledge of power and command.  
Frodo did not feel entirely comfortable in the Ranger's presence, especially when Strider revealed, within seconds, that he knew Underhill to be a false name. Strider proceeded to warn Frodo that the current situation was dangerous, but could tell that the hobbit considered the tall Man himself to be the biggest danger in the warm, comfortable but slightly smoky room. The two younger hobbits, meanwhile, appeared to have forgotten the peril completely; Pippin was still entertaining the crowd by acting out stories from the Shire.  
Frodo's whole body tensed as he realised which story Pippin was telling. He knew in a few moments' time the tale would turn from humorous to one that would best be kept quiet. It ended with Bilbo putting on the Ring of Power he had now given to Frodo but it was essential that the Ring remain a secret. The wizard Gandalf had entrusted Frodo and his companions with the task of taking it to Rivendell, the elf city grown up around the house of the Lord Elrond. If ever returned to Sauron its maker, the Ring would give him the power to destroy Middle Earth. It was plain to Strider and even to Frodo that Pippin must be stopped from mentioning the Ring at all costs; Strider immediately instructed Frodo to do something to distract the audience.  
Panicking a little, Frodo jumped on top of the table and shouted, causing people in the crowd to believe he'd had a little too much ale than was good for his little size, so it followed that one called upon him for a song. That one voice was echoed by others in seconds, leaving Frodo no choice. Hobbits can sing fairly well, as a rule, and Frodo was no worse than most. An old song of Bilbo's invention was the first that occurred to him, and he began. _  
_

_There is an inn, a merry old inn  
beneath an old grey hill,  
__And there they brew a beer so brown_ _  
that the Man in the Moon himself came down_ _  
one night to drink his fill._

_T__he ostler has a tipsy cat _ _  
that plays a five-string fiddle;_ _  
And up and down he runs his bow,_ _  
now squeaking high, now purring low,_  
_now sawing in the middle._

_The landlord has a little dog_  
_that is mighty fond of jokes;_ _  
When there's good cheer among the guests,_ _  
he cocks his ear at all the jests_  
_and laughs until he chokes._ _T_

_hey also keep a horn__é__d cow_  
_as proud as any queen;_ _  
But music turns her head like ale_ _  
And makes her wave her tufted tail_ _  
and dance upon the green._

_And O! the rows of silver dishes_ _  
and the store of silver spoons!_  
_For Sunday there's a special pair_ _  
And these they polish up with care_  
_on Saturday afternoons._

_The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,_ _  
and the cat begin to wail,_ _  
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,_  
_The cow in the garden madly pranced_  
_and the little dog chased his tail._

_The Man in the Moon took another mug,_ _  
and then rolled beneath his chair;_ _  
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,_  
_Till in the sky the stars were pale,_ _  
and dawn was in the air._

_The ostler said to his tipsy cat:_  
_'The white horses of the Moon,_  
_They neigh and champ their silver bits;_  
_But their master's been and drowned his wits_ _  
and the sun'll be rising soon.'_ _  
_

_So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,_ _  
a jig that would waken the dead:_ _  
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune, _ _  
While the landlord shook the Man in the moon:_  
_'It's after three!' he said._

_They rolled the Man slowly up the hill_  
_and bundled him into the moon,_  
_While his horses galloped up in rear_ _  
And the cow came capering like a deer,_ _  
and a dish ran up with a spoon._

_Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-deedle;_  
_the dog began to roar,_ _  
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;_  
_The guests all bounded from their beds_ _  
and danced upon the floor._

_With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!_  
_the cow jumped over the Moon,_  
_The little dog laughed to see such fun,_  
_And the Saturday dish went off at a run_ _  
with the silver Sunday spoon._

_The round Moon rolled behind the hill_ _  
As the sun raised up her head._ _  
She could hardly believe her fiery eyes;_ _  
For though it was day to her surprise_  
_they all went back to bed!_

It was nonsense, of course, but the Breelanders enjoyed it enough to give Frodo a round of applause. Some shouted out, they wanted him to sing it again so they could join in; the tune was a popular, well known one and the words easy to pick up. Frodo, wanting to keep attention off Pippin and also quite enjoying himself, began to sing again. This time most the Men and all the hobbits in the room clapped in time, singing wherever they remembered the lyrics. Frodo began stamping his foot on the table, then jumping to the beat. Strider watched intently as the jumping became an enthusiastic bounce, the skin between his eyes crinkling into a slight frown as if he had known what was going to happen at the end of the song.  
As most the crowd shouted, the cow jumped over the Moon, Frodo himself jumped even higher, tucking his knees right under his chin. He slipped as he landed and fell with a crash under the table. A great shout went up; Frodo didn't seem to be under the table, nor did he appear to be anywhere else. A complete silence fell for a moment only, then the innkeeper was summoned. Strider didn't move but his eyes glanced over the whole company again, trying to see if anyone appeared to have an unhealthy interest in the manner of Frodo's disappearance. Sam and Pippin gasped, it took them a little longer to work out what must have happened.

And Frodo? He was, in fact, beneath the table and had been all along. Under cover of the noise he crawled slowly across the room, trying to avoid being stepped upon. Some part of him felt he didn't want to remove the Ring from his finger; the better part of him knew it would be best to move out of view then take It off as fast as possible. So when he reached the table where Strider still sat he sat down, slipped It off and clutched It tightly in his fist. Strider said a few well-chosen words, called Frodo by his true name Mr. Baggins, then finished by requesting a private meeting, which left the hobbit shaking.  
Luckily for Frodo, Butterbur had by this time come into the common room, called by the confused company. Frodo stood up as tall as it is possible for a hobbit to stand, telling the complaining crowd that he hadn't vanished but had in fact been talking to Strider the whole time. They grumbling locals walked out, off to the comfort and normality of their own homes; the unfortunate few staying at the inn moved as far away as possible from the three hobbits and the Ranger.

Strider sat, unnoticed, by the fire for several minutes until the three Shire folk made a quiet exit back to their private parlour. Following silently, he slipped into the darkened room behind them, seating himself whilst the hobbits stirred the embers of the fire until it burst into flame once more. Tracking, generally outdoors, was a particular skill of Strider's, indeed a skill any Ranger should have; it was rare that anybody or anything should notice his presence as he crept along behind for many leagues. The three hobbits, ale-happy as they were, took no especial difficulty to remain hidden from.  
As the fire began to blaze once more, bathing the little room in a flickering orange light, it eventually dawned on the three Shire folk that they had company; fearing they would run to fetch the landlord Strider had to immediately remind them of Frodo's promise of a private conversation before they would sit down.

Strider's reasons for wanting to talk to the hobbits were several, but connected to one main hope. He had talked at length to the wizard Gandalf, discussing the Ring and what best to do with it after having captured Gollum, who had himself borne it for close to half a century. It was plain to both Man and Wizard that doing nothing was a path they dare not risk; taking the Ring to Rivendell would allow the decision of what to do with it to be made by all. It was also hoped, though faintly, that It might be safe in the Elven haven for all time.  
Strider knew he had to do all in his power to see the Ring safely to the House of Elrond Half Elven, no matter the cost to himself or others. He had thought, before he met the hobbits, that it would not be too difficult to persuade them to accept him as a travelling companion, by far the easiest way to increase their likelihood of surviving the journey. But the wizard had disappeared, leaving Strider no way to convince the little ones that he could be trusted. Indeed they thought to question him, until he named his companionship as price for the information he had about the Ring.  
Many minutes of debate then occurred, during which time Strider attempted to both warn the hobbits against the danger they already were partly aware was hunting them and to convince them to let him join their party. The first was not in any way conducive to the second, as Sam vehemently pointed out. Strider sighed silently to himself, aware that he had done well at showing the hobbits just how dangerous the situation was. He would now have to give them some reason to believe his trustworthiness; the hobbits would be swiftly killed and the Ring taken if they were to go much further by themselves.

Up to this point Strider had managed to keep all information about himself under close wraps, there was a lot more to him than the weather worn Ranger the Breelanders saw. Something of the rest of his life, he now realised, would have to be revealed. He began to say that he was willing to give an account of himself and to answer any questions the hobbits may ask when he heard footsteps and a loud knock on the door.  
As the door began to creak inwards, Strider stood and walked to a dark corner where he would be concealed from somebody entering the room until they turned round. Butterbur walked in, followed by the hobbit servant Nob, neither of whom turned to look into the corner hidden behind the door. The round little innkeeper was wringing his hands and kept looking at the floor; he was obviously uncomfortable with having to say what he knew he had to. With a lot of apologies and explanations, Butterbur proceeded to say that he recognised Frodo as Mr. Baggins from a description given by Gandalf three months previously. Frodo was startled, not only by the description given, but that the innkeeper was a friend of Gandalf.

Still Strider remained standing in the darkened corner, out of sight and out of mind, as Barliman Butterbur then pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it to Frodo, whose name and address was plain to see on the front. Frodo took it, amid the innkeeper's explanation that Gandalf had entrusted it to him three months previously and charged him with sending it to the Shire with the next person headed there, but that there had been nobody willing to undertake the journey, causing the letter to be left, forgotten, in Butterbur's possession.  
The muscles in Strider's abdomen and chest contracted as he stopped himself from inhaling sharply. Any message from Gandalf would contain news of import; though there was no telling if it would be good news or bad. The tall Ranger watched intently as Frodo took it. The letter was left unopened, however, as Butterbur began to tell the hobbits about black-cloaked riders who had been in the area for the last few days, asking to see Mr. Baggins. Strider cursed inwardly, the Ringwraiths were closer than he had thought. He then heard his own name mentioned in no more a friendly tone than before as Butterbur commented that he had turned down Strider's request to see the hobbits privately before they had entered the common room. At this, Strider decided to reveal him presence to the fat little innkeeper.

Butterbur jumped in shock and let out a bit of a squeak as Strider stepped from behind him into the firelight. The innkeeper exclaimed several times, then complained about Strider to his face, warning the hobbits not to keep company with a Ranger. Butterbur's ignorance of the true nature of the Rangers of the North irked Strider, who suggested that maybe Butterbur might like to be the one to face the riders from Mordor in the attempt to see Frodo and the Ring safe to Rivendell. Within a few moments the innkeeper had excused himself from their presence, taking Nob as he went. The only useful thing he had said, amid the blustering, long winded explanations and apologies, was to question the whereabouts of the fourth hobbit, Merry Brandybuck, which he did on his way out the door.  
Strider noted the comment, thinking that if Nob hadn't found Merry by nightfall, he would have to go looking for the young hobbit to keep him out of trouble. Then he prompted Frodo to open the letter, curious as to what it might say but also slightly nervous that it might have contained instructions that the hobbits would, three months later, have had no way of following.  
Frodo broke the seal bearing Gandalf's mark on the letter and unfolded it. He read it silently, then passed it to the other two hobbits. Strider watched impatiently as they digested the contents, wanting to know whatever information it held. He was relieved, though, when it became clear that part of the letter said that a Man, called Aragorn but sometimes known as Strider, was a friend of Gandalf's and could be trusted with everything. This had been what Strider was on the point of saying when Butterbur had appeared, it had taken him that long to be sure of the three hobbits; certain that they weren't a trap set to stop him contacting the real hobbits.

Sam, however, wasn't convinced that the Strider standing in the room with them was the same Strider Gandalf had recommended. Facing up to the Man nearly twice his height he challenged Strider to prove himself. There was no other way, now, for Strider to prove to Sam who he was except to scare the hobbits into believing it. He stood tall and proud, threatening them with death if he really was an agent of Mordor. The hobbits quailed under the look he gave them then backed away as he drew back his cloak and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. He could tell they were frightened of him, and rightly so. As he then said to the Shire folk, he had easily the ability to hurt them, or worse, take the Ring.  
Knowing he had scared them enough, Strider smiled; the first time the hobbits had seen him do so. The change it wrought in him was astounding; the good looks and open honesty hidden behind the ruggedness and travel dirt became visible as lines of care and worry faded. They believed now, as he repeated once again, that he really was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Gandalf's friend and someone who would fight to the death for their cause. Had he added, directly descended heir of Isildur, therefore heir to the stewarded throne of Gondor, they would have accepted that truth without further question as well.

Strider quoted softly under his breath, a few lines of verse from the poem that accompanied his birth name, Aragorn. This served him well, for Gandalf had written the poem in his letter, which Strider had not seen. The hobbits seemed to take this as final proof that they had found Gandalf's friend Aragorn; there was no other way Strider could know those words. To show them one final proof of his identity, Strider then pulled his sword, Narsil, out of the scabbard. The blade was broken shortly below the hilt; it could never be used as a weapon of any kind, even against such small foes as hobbits. The sword was clearly the one spoken of, the blade that was broken, in the verse Gandalf had written. Even Sam, now, could find no argument against their allowing Strider to accompany and lead them to Rivendell.  
The four then sat and began to plan their departure the following morning. The fire was burning low now, casting dancing shadows across the room. The next few minutes passed well enough, until Strider stiffened in his seat, attentively listening to something down the hallway. A few moments later the hobbits also could hear hurried footsteps, maybe of two pairs of feet, nearly running in their direction.

The door flew open and Merry came panting into the room, closely followed by Nob, who looked fit to scream. Merry started shouting about the black-cloaked riders, saying that he had been outside and seen one. Strider immediately asked where the rider had gone, startling Merry, who hadn't noticed him until then. The Man didn't allow time to explain his presence, the information he now needed from Merry was far too important. Within a matter of seconds a course of action was decided; it would be unsafe for the hobbits to return to their own rooms for the night so they would stay in the parlour under Strider's protection. Nob then spoke, informing Strider that the beds in the hobbits' rooms had been stuffed to look like they were inhabited, from outside the window at least.

As soon as Nob had left the little parlour, Strider set about securing the door. Whilst the hobbits rolled themselves in blankets, jostling for positing by the hearth, he set a chair sitting with its back to the door, wedged under the handle. Seating himself, he waited as the hobbits drifted off to sleep, but did not close his eyes. Seeing such small people at their most vulnerable, he decided as he watched the rise and fall of Merry's chest in the firelight, was going to be one of the few pleasures of the next few weeks.  
Determined to stop that train of thought before it took hold of him, Strider moved silently to the fire. He pushed the larger logs around until they gave out that little bit more heat, which he then decided he didn't really need; he felt warm enough despite the growing cold of autumn. The hobbits would appreciate the fire, though, he knew. Throwing back the hood of his cloak, he sat down again, but still did not sleep.  
Instead he studied the features of the four hobbits, who lay totally unaware of what he was doing. Frodo was the oldest, Strider could tell without even consciously thinking about it. The other three were of similar ages. Sam was the stoutest, Pippin the shortest. But by far the most interesting, to Strider's mind, was the young Brandybuck, Merry. With his dark eyes and walnut brown curly hair, he captured Strider's attention, although why that should be Strider couldn't tell; they all four had curly hair, three with dark hair and three also with dark eyes.

Trying to believe that a closer look would control his fascination for the little person from the Shire, Strider once more stood and walked towards the four laid, fast asleep, on the floor. Crouching down by Merry's head, he laid his hand a scant millimetre above the skin on the hobbit's cheek. With a quavering finger he stroked the locks of hair growing from Merry's temple, careful not to wake him. As his breathing became harsher, quicker and shallower Strider pulled back; trying not to make a noise. There would be a time for this, and it was not now, with black riders waiting outside.  
Strider paused a second before leaving Merry's side, stopping to touch his lips to the top of the hobbit's head and draw his fingertip along the curve of his jaw, but careful to keep his feel light on Merry's bare skin. Even so he thought he saw a slight flutter run through the little hobbit's dark eyelashes as he watched. Staying low, Strider backed away a little, then stood and walked back to the chair, slowing his breathing as he went.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The rest of the night passed quietly in the little room with the hobbits shifting in their sleep and Strider unmoving, but completely awake, in his chair. Dawn broke with a pale light and cold wind which woke the hobbits as Strider cracked the shutters open wide. Telling them to hurry, he led them, rubbing eyes and stumbling, back to their own rooms, to show them what had happened whilst they slept. Every piece of fabric had been ripped, wood broken. Watching the hobbits' reactions, Strider saw that they had underestimated the danger they had been in. Telling them not to move, he turned and headed off down the corridor.  
Strider walked quickly, but not quickly enough to attract attention if he happened to meet anybody in the narrow hallways. It was possible that cooks, maids and other workers at the Pony would be about even at this early hour. He headed straight for Butterbur's own chamber, thinking the whole time that if anything had happened to the innkeeper, then Strider would take pleasure in digging him up with the intent of beheading him.

Yet thoughts of Merry kept intruding; pictures of the little hobbit bursting into the parlour shouting, of him sleeping as Strider ran a finger along his jawbone, kept trying to push to the forefront of the Ranger's mind. Then, unbidden, a vision of Merry in a woodland glade, barefoot and bare chested, reaching down to undo the buttons of his three quarter length trousers with one hand and beckoning with the other. The leaves were shining and the grass strewn with flowers as the hobbit-  
Strider concentrated hard to bring the background of the scene into clearer focus, then forced an image of his betrothed, the elf maiden Arwen, daughter of Elrond, in place of the hobbit. It was much easier, he knew, to ignore something by changing it than by attempting to forget it. It was in a slightly flustered state of mind, therefore, that Strider reached the door to Butterbur's chamber; knocking swiftly and harshly.

The door creaked open slowly and Butterbur poked his head out, eyes still bleary and hair tucked under a nightcap. He had enough wits about him, though, to tear this off his head as he jogged down the hallway in an attempt to keep up with the Ranger's long stride, muttering as he did so that nothing had happened all night; he had been awake the entire time and heard nothing. Strider ignored this, leading the way hurriedly back to the hobbits' rooms.  
Once the two had made their way to the room where the Shire folk waited, Mr. Butterbur had no choice but to accept that something untoward had happened that night and that he had missed it. Cursing under his breath, he seemed not to know what to do for the best. Strider, noticing the innkeeper's obvious panic and confusion, sent him away to have a light breakfast brought to them and to order their ponies to be made ready to leave.  
As soon as Mr. Butterbur had left the room Strider turned back to the four hobbits, sitting nervously all together on one bed. Quietly he asked them if they had packed their belongings and were ready to leave. Deliberately avoiding looking at Merry, he directed the question to Frodo, sitting at the opposite end of the bed next to Sam. As the four gave him affirmative answers, Strider began to examine more closely the slashes in the curtains and the smashed window frames.

The blades had been sharp, the hands strong, this much Strider could tell. A faint smoke lingered still about the edges of the cuts, as if the knives had been coated with acid. This gave the Ranger a worry; turning his mind back to old history and legend, he recognised the mark of a weapon forged in Mordor many years before, at the height of the Dark Lord's power. The tall, lean Man suppressed a sigh; he had hoped these daggers had been lost or unmade in the battle fought on the plains on the very edge of Mordor, three thousand years before when Isildur had cut the Ring from Sauron's hand and destroyed Sauron's body.  
The slightest touch of these blades, forged in the Morgul Vale in Mordor, would cause corruption of the flesh, sickening and death of the victim if not treated, Strider knew. He also felt that it had suddenly become even more imperative, if that was possible, for them to arrive safely at Rivendell without encountering the black riders.

If the hobbits had thought that things could not get any worse, they then received a rude shock as the fat little innkeeper burst back into the room, looking even more distressed than he had done a few minutes before. Strider, however, was not at all surprised, though still annoyed, when Butterbur burst out that their ponies had been let loose from their stables, along with every other pony and horse in the stable yard at the inn. None of the missing animals could be found anywhere in the village, and it quickly came to light that the few riding ponies in Bree were also stabled at the Prancing Pony; they had also disappeared without a trace. Strider said nothing whilst the hobbits and the round little innkeeper exclaimed, panicking and generally wasting time.  
Instead the lonely Man considered all he knew about Shire folk in general, then thought deeply on everything he had surmised about these particular hobbits. Frodo, he had been able to see immediately, was clever, resourceful and fairly fit. Sam would follow Frodo anywhere, especially with his mistrust of Strider. Merry... well, Strider thought, he would do anything in his power to take care of the young hobbit. The three should, with Strider's aid, be able to survive the journey he was now planning. Pippin would be the problem; he was inexperienced and eager to please, but with no common sense or caution at all.

Certain there would be complaints all round, Strider suggested they walk, and go cross country instead of riding along the Road. It wasn't really a suggestion; they had no choice but to walk, now. The hobbits tried to appear brave, undaunted by the prospect of the journey, but it was plain to Strider that they were not entirely happy. Frodo asked if there was any chance of buying a pony to help carry some of the baggage, at least. Bob, another worker at the Prancing Pony, was sent out with the instruction to visit every house in the village to see if anyone was willing to sell their pony. As there were very few animals of the type in Bree, Strider had very little hope of being successful.  
The five travellers sat waiting for only a few seconds before Merry, after the manner of a typical hobbit in the morning, reminded the innkeeper that they would have time for breakfast whilst they waited to hear news back from Bob. An excellent meal was brought in due course, the food as high a quality as it had been the previous night, when the four hobbits had supped for nearly an hour before venturing into the common room. Eggs, bacon, sausage. Mounds of toasted bread and teacakes dripping with golden butter. Most promising, the four half pints and one full pint of ale from the final cask to have been opened the evening before.

Whilst he sipped the amber liquid, Strider again flicked his gaze towards Merry, his eyes shining. The young hobbit was, as the other three seemed to be, unused to drinking ale at such an early hour in the morning. As Strider watched, Merry's cheeks began to glow slightly red, reminding Strider of how pale they had been after the events of the night before. Strider took a sausage, cooling now, between his finger and thumb. He lifted it to his lips, allowing his tongue to roll it gently round for just a moment before biting into it.  
Strider kept on glancing over at the hobbits as he ate, all the while trying not to make his observations too plain. He noticed they had each eaten at least as much as he had, if not more. With the arrival of the food and drink, they seemed to have settled into a more comfortable, almost homelike mood. They clearly had no idea that Strider was watching them. He sat on the bed nearest the door, the four hobbits opposite. The only time the four seemed to notice his presence was when he reached towards the little table between the two beds to pick up something else to eat; talking amongst themselves they ignored the Ranger.

Just about two hours after breakfast had been finished, by Strider at least, news came back to the little room that there was only one pony to be found in the village whom they might convince its owner to part with. Strider swiftly checked that belongings were still packed, which they weren't. During the course of the meal the hobbits had inexplicably found it necessary to remove several items from their packs, but had not replaced them afterwards. His own pack lay by the door, tied closed and ready to leave.  
Hurrying the hobbits (they had lost about two and a half hours waiting for a pony to be found) Strider grew so exasperated that he nearly started packing their belongings for them. He saw they would need more supplies than they had already gathered, so sent Bob back to the stables with a request for oats for the pony and more food for themselves. Then, checking his sword belt and pulling his cloak on over the top of his shirt and breeches, Strider shouldered his heavy pack with ease; his strong back and shoulders not really feeling the weight the suddenly menacing Man beckoned the hobbits to follow him out to the stable yard.

The pony stood quietly in a stone-walled stable, munching enthusiastically on a fall manger of hay despite the metal bit in his mouth. He was slightly taller than the ponies the hobbits had been riding before, in fact bigger than any they had seen, excepting the black horses the Ringwraiths from Mordor rode. His hair was chestnut, his mane and tail flaxen, his eyes an intelligent brown and his entire body and legs well in proportion. He would have been good to look upon had it not been for the ribs pushing out against his taut coat, which itself lacked a healthy shine, and the way he kept jumping sideways away from Nob, who was trying to tie bags of oats and other supplies to the battered old saddle on his back.  
Impatiently Sam stepped forward, instructing Nob to go do whatever task Butterbur would have usually have set him in the morning. He crouched down in the straw, waiting for the pony to become used to his presence. Strider watched with a smile nearly curling the corners of his mouth as the pony flicked an ear towards Sam, then twitched it back forwards, ignoring the hobbit in favour of the hay. Sam stood a little taller, half expecting to have to drop back down again, but as the pony wasn't disturbed by this, he then took a few slow steps forward.  
The pony turned his whole head towards Sam this time, still chewing. As Sam stood motionless, the pony's tongue flashed out, licking his large lips. Then he went back to eating again, now unconcerned that there was a hobbit sharing his stable. Sam, speaking quietly, made the last step, drawing an apple out of his pocket as he did so. He offered it to the pony, who snatched it, sniffing at Sam's hand and eventually touching his palm with his whiskers.

Less than ten minutes later the pony was loaded to Strider's satisfaction, goodbyes were said and the folk of the Prancing Pony had gone back to their business. All five travellers shouldered their packs once more, the hobbits looking to the Man for instructions. Sam took hold of the pony's reins in his right hand and drew them down over his head ready to lead him out. Strider set out, followed by Frodo, then Merry and Pippin. They disappeared from the three-sided yard, the three hobbits walking faster than they would normally have done.  
Sam clicked his tongue and gave a gentle tug on the reins, hoping the pony would walk forwards, then still behave himself outside the stable. He had no experience of ponies apart from the quiet, sturdy beasts sometimes ridden in the Shire, especially not ones this big. It was with some trepidation that he took a slow step but to his delight the pony stepped out beside him without needing further encouragement. He quickened the pace a fraction to catch up the Strider, Frodo, Merry and Pippin, again pleased when the pony broke into a steady trot as Sam began to jog.

Strider heard the hoof beats behind him, heard the pony manage a few steps of trot then drop back to a walk. Those few strides were all the pony was capable of doing for the moment, underfed and ill-treated as he had been. Yet he seemed to be willing to give his all for Sam, who sounded like he couldn't jog that much further than the pony could trot.  
They were now proceeding down the main street of Bree, towards a well-built wooden gate visible in the distance; the morning mist had cleared several hours before. Inquisitive faces poked out of open windows or peered covertly from behind shutters but the small party ignored them all, continuing as if nobody was there. The gate grew closer and the houses thinned out as they walked, hoof beats loud in the empty road but footsteps quiet. One Man only stood in plain sight in front of them.  
An ugly Man he was, Strider thought as he looked him in the eye. There was no other way to describe the slightly misshapen face and stooped shoulders, but it was the expression on that face that made it so hideous to look upon. Contempt, mostly, mixed with a little fear and a bit more bitterness. Strider nodded his head in acknowledgement of the sour Man's presence but said nothing as the Man tried to provoke him with insults.  
Sam, instead, was the one who broke first. Recognising the Man as the previous owner of the pony, he dug in his  
pack for another of his apples and let fly as he walked past. The apple hit the Man square on the head; he went down with a crash. From behind the high hedge the travellers could hear muffled swearing, but ignored it and continued walking.

It became apparent, then, that there were more people about than there had been when they had left the inn. Adults and children, Men and hobbits, all following the five a discreet distance behind, but still in plain view. They could be heard, but no words were distinguishable, even to Strider it was an unintelligible cacophony yet about as quiet as a sound can be before it becomes inaudible. This also they ignored, continuing purposefully on towards the gate, then through it. The crowd, falling behind already, stopped as it reached the gate and realised that the five travellers were already nearly half a mile ahead.  
The Road ran due south at this point. The land to either side was green and wet, but there were no trees in sight. At times a house could be seen, or a tilled field as a patch of brown. But not one Man or hobbit came into view as they walked. Birds could be heard, sometimes the rustle of a small animal. Overhead they might catch a glimpse of a crow or little songbird but the mice, rabbits and foxes hid in the lush grass, unseen.  
As the Road turned left, rounding the bottom of Bree Hill to run east, Strider turned sharply, looking behind as if he thought they were being followed. In reality, he knew it was unlikely that any Man could could have walked behind him for nearly a mile without his knowledge; it was not Men or hobbits of Bree that could cause them trouble now, as they headed into the Wilds.  
Dwellings now appeared only on the left side of the road, and very infrequently. Pippin suggested singing to pass the miles, but didn't speak again for many minutes after he saw the expression on Strider's face at the idea. The further they were from civilisation, the more likely, Strider considered, the black riders would be to ambush them. They could not risk making a noise that would be heard for miles in the low country they were heading towards, so they spoke only softly from then.

After the Road curved left, it began to run downhill into a wooded area. The firm, dark soil began to get looser and damper underfoot as they walked. Strider and Frodo remained silent whilst Merry and Pippin spoke in whispers and Sam talked in a low tone to the pony. As the trees began to line the edges of the Road Strider kept glancing behind, as if expecting to see black cloaked figures appear from behind a thicket, their naked swords bared and horses charging towards them.

They didn't, however, stay long on the Road once the trees hid them from view of the village on the hill above. As if cut for their very purpose, a trail led off the Road, barely visible unless a watchful eye knew where to look. Strider held out his arm, halting the hobbits as he stopped. He pushed back a few branches above the barely visible, fairly old tracks on the ground, showing the Shire folk the path and holding the branches out of the way whilst they walked through.  
As the pony stepped off the Road, Strider let the branches fall back sharply, dislodging a few leaves that fell to the ground, hopefully to cover their tracks, should anybody be following. Still, he didn't trust to that one simple trick to fool all watching eyes; for the next few hours he led a winding path through the Chetwood, sometimes turning onto a side trail, sometimes not, but always being careful not to head too much in one direction.

As he stepped carefully to avoid breaking leaves or twigs underfoot, Strider's mind turned back again to the previous night. The soft cracking and popping of logs in the fireplace, the warmth as he had tended the blaze. The flood of heat as he had lowered himself down next to the young hobbit, watching the gentle rise and fall of Merry's chest as the little one had slept. He found his eyes flicking towards the young hobbit once again as they walked in the dappled shade. Finding himself unable to stop this happening, Strider increased his pace to come past the rest of the party to lead once more.  
Even back at the front of the small group and unable to see the object of his distraction, though, did not make things any easier for the Ranger, who could hear every word that the hobbits said. Merry was still whispering to Pippin, Sam had quietened as the pony settled and became more comfortable with the situation. Strider concentrated hard on trying to find a roundabout route that would confuse pursuers, trying to push the voices to a distant corner of his mind whilst listening for any other sounds, of which there were still none other than the natural fall of water, calls of birds, sometimes a breath of wind in treetops or the occasional small animal rustling through the leaves.

They walked continuously in the shade under the leaves until midday passed, then for a short while longer. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon they reached a glade where light shone more brightly through the break in the canopy above. A cracked, dry old log lay part buried in the undergrowth, branches poking up along about one half of it's length. The remainder of the trunk was bare, worn smooth by near constant wind and frequent rain.  
Strider halted, one look at the hobbits causing them to stop with thankful sighs of relief. They had been walking now for four or five hours without a break and had not eaten for several hours longer; an excessive amount of time for a hobbit to survive between meals or snacks. By the time Strider had swung one leg over the log, the four were seated upon it, legs dangling several inches above the floor. All five travellers dug into their packs, searching for food of any kind. Cheese they had, and meat, but Strider refused to let the hobbits eat them, saying they would feel the benefits more at the end of a hard day's march.  
As he spoke, Aragorn watched the hobbit's faces for a reaction, trying to discern just how much further they would be able to travel before nightfall, if indeed the little people could walk at his pace for several more hours. Frodo alone showed no outward signs of distress; the three younger hobbits complained loudly until he allowed them an apple each and half a loaf of fresh bread to share between all five.

Sam distributed apples as Strider tore chunks off the loaf, feeding the first of the fruits to the pony standing quietly at his side. The animal crunched quickly, finishing his portion before Sam had thrown the last apple to Strider. The Ranger then walked along the line of hobbits, passing each a piece of bread, which they each took with the hand not holding their apple. Merry's little fingers brushed Strider's long, scarred ones as he gave the hobbit the bread, causing a rippling shock of heat to pass through the Ranger's tall body.

Moving quickly on, Strider reached out to give Sam his share of the bread, only to see that his left hand was still holding the reins dangling from the pony's bit. Sam quickly rested the apple on his thigh so he could take the bread. The pony, seeing the unattended apple, picked it up swiftly with his large lips, swallowing it in one bite almost before Sam had realised that the fruit was no longer where he had put it.  
The sturdy hobbit jumped as if to snatch the apple back, considering giving the pony a gentle slap for his misbehaviour. But this was not one of the shaggy little rock steady ponies found in the Shire; he was nearly a horse and had grown scared of ill treatment after having been subjected to it for the previous few years. But more importantly, Sam had already began to care for the animal who had placed his trust in a stranger.  
Instead of reprimanding the pony, Sam ran the hand holding the reins down the furry neck, laughing as he gave a gentle scratch to the skin beneath. The pony nuzzled at the hand holding the bread, making Sam pull it quickly back out of the way. Strider turned away as the three other hobbits chuckled, determinedly not looking at Merry as the little one's cheeks flushed with his laughter.

Swearing to himself that he would never again allow the hobbits to stop to eat, only for an evening meal followed by sleep, Strider settled down again on the log. He didn't look at the hobbits as he ate, concentrating instead on the colour and texture of Arwen's dark, silky hair and creamy soft, pale skin. He quickly found this did not help; it only exaggerated the quickening of his pulse and the tingly feeling spreading throughout his body.  
Only one thought was left to help Strider control his emotions. His shoulders dropped noticeably and a shadow seemed to cloak his eyes as he placed the image of Arwen on a ship sailing away into a sunset, never to return. The knowledge that this was to be the likely fate of their relationship had a sobering effect on his passion; it was with less vigour that he forced the last of the bread down his throat and slung his pack back onto his back.

Without a word, the Ranger started off in yet another new direction. Sam gave him a deeply mistrustful glance before clicking his tongue at the pony to follow. Strider saw the look as he paused to check that all four hobbits were following, darkening his mood even further. He was doubtful, now, of the Man he had become over the course of many hard years. It was hard, he knew, to like an uncommunicative, often dirty Man who never stayed long in one place, yet the description fit him perfectly.  
Strider felt the mud sticking to his boots now more than ever, understanding that it was partially his travel stained and weather worn appearance that did not endear him to others. Worse than that, he felt as he trudged along the shadowy path, was his inability to accept his lineage as heir to one who had not been able to deny the Ring it's power. The kingdom of Gondor could be his, Strider knew, if only he could accept and proclaim his heritage. But he was loath to do this, to admit the weakness in his blood.  
In a sullen, brooding silence, the tortured Man led the small party swiftly through the many paths of the Chetwood, his skills sufficient even when distracted by self-doubt. The Sun moved lower in the sky, lengthening the shadows until the shade under the canopy was complete. The entire day they had seen no other living creature except the occasional bird but this did not decrease Strider's feeling of need for watchfulness. Still he did not talk, but surveyed the woodland surrounding them with a searching, insistent gaze as he considered his life.  
Travelling in the company of four hobbits, already fast friends, made Strider realise what he had been missing out on as he had wandered the Wilds alone. Companionship he had long shunned, but it was beginning to become clear to him that a solitary life was far less satisfying than the feeling of friendship between the Shire folk.  
It distressed Strider, now, that he had not earned the full trust of his four followers. He knew they believed him to be the Man he claimed to be, the Man Gandalf had written to Frodo about, but he felt this not to be enough. For them to trust him for his own sake, he now considered, would be a comfort to him in his loneliness. The time for stalking silently in private shadows, the troubled Man felt, would soon be over.

As it became too dark to see tree roots beneath their feet, Strider called a halt; the first words he had spoken since refusing the hobbits the meat and cheese several hours previously. Hugely thankful, the Shire folk dropped to the floor, Merry and Pippin beginning to chatter to each other as they pulled food and water flasks out of their packs. Strider flung himself onto a carpet of leaves and pulled his cloak tight about his body, wanting to catch a few hours sleep whilst the hobbits ate. He planned to take the first watch, but knew that after having sat awake all the night before, he would not be as alert as he felt he needed to be.  
Sleep came quickly, despite the worries and doubt. Strider's exhaustion was not complete, nor as total as had felt on occasion during his long life. Dreams disturbed his slumber, but did not wake him as he turned back and forth amid the mix of golds, browns and green. He tossed about for several hours whilst the hobbits ate and talked quietly amongst themselves before waking as the Shire folk's chatter died down. For several more minutes he lay with his eyes closed, listening to the voices but not heeding the words.  
As the tired Man sat up, rustling a few leaves, the hobbits fell silent. He suspected they had been discussing the wisdom of travelling with a stranger twice their size, especially one whom they had been warned against. He did not doubt the sense of doing this; in their place he knew he would have done the same, but it still upset him somewhat that he did not appear a Man to be trusted.

The hobbits wished each other goodnight, but only Frodo acknowledged Strider. The three younger Shire folk turned their backs to him as they lay themselves down, causing him enough discomfort to make him ignore Frodo's words. Strider drew his knees into his chest to retain his body heat as he sat, staring out into the blackness in an attempt to see more than a few feet in front of his face in the pale, dim moonlight.  
The hobbits' skin was bathed a shade of silver as the moon moved momentarily into a gap between the flowing canopies of two large trees high above their heads. Not for long could Strider stay upset at Merry as he watched the tips of the little one's ears shine out against the darkness of his tangled hair. Strider was grateful as the moon continued on her journey, hiding once again behind leaves. The stars now gave the only light and Strider now sensed mainly by hearing, knowing his vision would not be reliable in such conditions.  
The breathing and heartbeats of the sleeping Shire folk sounded loud to the Ranger's keen ears in the calm quiet of the night. The pony browsed on the undergrowth incessantly, chewing and snapping plant stems. Letting his mind wash over these sounds, he concentrated instead on the background noise, hoping not to hear a distant crack of a twig or hoof beat. Praying that the black cloaked horsemen were still on the Road, he nevertheless was uncertain that they or their spies would not be somewhere nearby. Strider sat immobile, listening, until the night was half over before casting himself back onto the welcoming, if cold, ground. Within minutes his breathing had slowed to sleep, untroubled by dreams now his tiredness was that bit more pronounced.


End file.
